


Fragments.

by drinkginandkerosene



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Cutting, Drabbles, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-22
Updated: 2013-06-22
Packaged: 2017-12-15 19:20:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/853121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drinkginandkerosene/pseuds/drinkginandkerosene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ryan doesn't like remembering much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fragments.

First kisses are rarely perfect, but this felt like the beginning of something. 

You tasted like the smokes you hoped your parents wouldn’t find out about, and I probably tasted like liquor. Like father like son.

I was terrified to touch you, you were so perfect, and I polluted. I expected to see fractures as my hands laced through yours. Cracks.

One of your hands gently, so gently touched the skin stretched across my hip, and damn, I could feel the hesitation as you touched my mutilated skin. It was a good day. There were only twenty fresh. 

Less gently, I pulled my shirt back down. It would take a year before I let him see me, see my flawed skin. 

The first kiss with Pete was different.

His breath was hot and tasted like aspirin, and maybe the drugs on his tongue had worked on me too, because my eyes blurred, and I lost all memory about how much I was fucking this up. It wasn’t until I threw up bile and whiskey in his hotel suite’s bathroom, with his nails engraved on my shoulder blades, where I remembered the look on your face. So what did I do? I picked myself up off the floor and went back to bed of course.

I called you on the ride home.

“Bren. I don’t love him. I-.” 

I never could say the words you needed to hear.

I found you between half-smiles and bruises and almost kisses.  
I’d like to say I’d stay forever, I really would, but you can tell when I’m lying anyway.

I like writing love songs to you. I doodle them in the margins of my notebook, on my hand, on the soles of my shoes. I’m not sure if you see, but sometimes your mouth flickers in such a way, I believe you must know.

I like watching romantic movies with you. I cuddle up to your body (it’s always warmer than mine), and you don’t look at me but you put your arm over my frail shoulders like you believe I won’t break, and for a moment, I think I won’t too.

I like reading love poetry to you. I like the way the words taste on my tongue, the way your eyes shine when I deliver a stanza like flowers, when my mouth (nothing like yours) manages the delicate nature of the sounds. 

I like doing romantic things with you. I like coffee in Indie Cafes, running in the rain, going to concerts, seeing cheesy movies, driving to the desert in the middle of the night. I like dancing with you, doing your make up, having snowball fights in winter and water fights in summer.

So why don’t I like being in love with you?

You hate the rain but love the snow.   
We sit, on the bench, our skin as pale as the earth around us, and I watch the flakes decorate your body.

It’s time for ‘a talk.’  
“You see, the thing is-” You begin, and your words don’t make sense because you’re frowning, and that never happens. You smile, I frown. I have the monopoly on frowning. You look like me when you frown and that scares me. I never want you to be anything like me. “I miss summer.” 

“But you like the snow.”  
“Not all the time I don’t.”  
I sense we’re no longer talking about the weather.

“See Ry, snow for a little while is good. It makes things pretty, makes you see them in a different way.” I fiddle with my scarf, and I know my cheeks are read, my body fighting to keep itself warm. I’m not dressed for the weather. I’m not prepared. He continues, his lips like roses. “But then it gets dangerous. You realise there’s ice underneath, waiting. You can clear the snow sometimes, but you can’t get rid of the ice see?” I didn’t. I didn’t want to. But my cracked lips ask another question.

“But you can wait for it to melt.”  
“Not if it’s really fucking determined to stay frozen. Not if it’s acting like it’s the Arctic circle.” Okay, that hurt. I can’t speak. I look at my fingerless gloves, blow on them. I know he’s looking at me, and he wants me to cry but my tears are frozen like the rest of me.

“Bye Ryan. I’m going somewhere warmer.”  
I watch him leave, and he leaves footprints in the snow.


End file.
